Must Kill Potter
by topazring
Summary: Draco has just one thing, and one thing only in his mind. He needs help. And he gets it – forcibly.
1. Chapter 1

**Must Kill Potter**

**A/N : **uh, Hi! Still alive.

My very first H/D! :)

**Genre : Humour/ Romance **

**Summary : **Draco just has just one thing, and one thing only in his mind. He needs help. And he gets it – forcibly.

**Warnings : Harry/Draco Slash** slight **A/U **slight **OOCs** one **OC **probability of **Crack!**

**Rating : ****T**

**Chapter One **

Draco honestly didn't know how it happened. He swore he didn't do it. He banged his fist on the table with self-righteous indignation and even offered the use of Veritaserum on himself.

And of course, no one believed him. Not even that _cow_, Parkinson. And neither did McGonagall – if the set of her lips in a thinned, severe line was any indication. And Draco maintained, bellowed even, that he was being punished unjustly – _the Universe was out to get him! _He fumed, angrily kicking his feet in the wet, sludgy mud.

Draco huffed in annoyance and recalled the events once again.

OoOoO

It was a Thursday. Draco hated Thursdays – it was the most boring day of the week, right in the middle, neither here nor there. And mostly because Thursdays meant Double Transfiguration with the insufferable Gryffindorks, and two solid hours of that old bat McGonagall exuding severity in every sentence and showing (in Draco's astute opinion) blatant favouritism towards the incompetent fools belonging to her own House.

And so there he was, propped in his seat right after lunch, McGonagall's voice washing over him dully making its way into his sleepy brain, a low buzzing in his ears- explaining something about the precise wand movements used to Transfigure a chair into mice or some such nonsense – while he idly doodled on the parchment and stifled a yawn with great difficulty. Next to him, Pansy was jiggling her foot, steadily growing with impatience and force until the whole bench started to vibrate along with her. Annoyed, he looked up to tell her off and instead his eyes fell on a mop of messy black hair in the seat across from him.

_Potter._ Probably, the biggest Gryffindork ever, but Draco had to admit there were several worthy contenders.

The scruffy git was bent forward over his desk with his nose practically in his notes. His brows scrunched over his ridiculous glasses. His fringe covered up most of his forehead, where Draco knew that stupidly infamous scar was.

_Stupid, famous, scruffy git! With the stupid glasses and his stupid ugly scar. _

Draco narrowed his eyes at the Boy Who Persisted To Live. He hoped some of the malevolence that he was directing in his gaze would make Potter choke on his own tongue or something - a bloke could at least hope. The buzzing in his ears grew louder.

Potter's quill moved furiously over his parchment as he diligently seemed to be taking notes. Draco could see Potter's chicken scrawl adorning the parchment even from where he was sitting.

_Stupid, arse-kissing, hairy Baboon. Probably was never taught to write legibly by those uncouth muggles._

Potter paused in his note-taking and frowned at his notes.

_Stupid, brainless git._

He slightly scrunched up his nose and bit his lower lip, and idly twirled his quill between his fingers.

As Draco's eyes followed the quill, his brain vaguely noting that there may be a very hyperactive bee in his ear for all the buzzing that he could hear. As the quill twirled and swayed the number of bees seemed to be getting higher.

Suddenly the quill made its inexplicable journey towards Potter's mouth, and Draco watched as Potter's lips closed around tip of the eagle quill. The incessant buzzing seemed to stop for a heartbeat then returned with a hundred fold intensity, loud, confusing and compressing at the same time.

The events after that were all too blurry for Draco to recall no matter how hard he tried. All that he could remember was that time seemed to slow incredibly, yet somehow fly past at an alarming rate – if that makes sense, even _Draco _couldn't make sense of it. One moment he was flying through the air past Pansy's shocked face, and green eyes behind round frames whipped towards him in surprise…and the next moment he was being choked by his own collar as someone was yanking it from behind, someone was screeching in his ear, and out of the corner of his eye he could see a huge huddle of people bent over something, he could see a bit of bushy, brown hair in the middle of the crowd.

"Mr Weasley desist immediately, or it'll be a year's worth of detentions!" screeched McGonagall over all the mayhem, and not a moment too soon as Draco felt the grip on his collar slacken and the darkness enveloping the corners of his vision retreat. He slumped to the ground and took ragged breaths against the stone floor. Suddenly, he was kicked by a boot in the stomach.

"Mr Weasley!" McGonagall yelled again, her voice nearing shrillness of a cat doused with ice cold water.

Draco slumped further down and clutched at his gut. Then, he was being yanked up roughly by the arm and pulled to his feet unsteadily. His vision swam and sound waves seemed to be missing most of his ears.

"…- yes, Miss Granger…now!... – may, Weas - …-sit-…-I return!"

Dimly aware that he was being dragged through corridors, Draco tried to get his bearings together. There still seemed to be a hornet's nest in his head, the buzzing was starting to feel bloody annoying – _thank you very much_. And it wasn't until he was being pushed roughly into a chair and force fed Ginger Snaps, that the buzzing go down and his head cleared. This may not have been such a good thing as the angry, red face of McGonagall came into focus just a few inches from his nose.

Draco gulped inspite of himself and shrunk a little lower in the chair. Her eyes were furious slits and the lips were drawn into the thinnest line he had ever seen – which meant she was pissed, mighty pissed. Draco gulped again.

"Mr Malfoy," she began in almost a whisper, her teeth clenched, and Draco shivered under her gaze. "Can you, _please_, explain your actions in class – in _my _class - just now?"

Draco had to give the old bat some credit, she could be nearly as intimidating and frightening as Snape was – and Snape _was _scary! Draco had heard Slytherin lore about their Head of House and what would happen if one got on his wrong side – a particularly popular one had Snape simply staring down his nose at one such unlucky sod, who had then promptly fallen down weeping inconsolably, proceeded to suffer a nervous breakdown and had to be taken to St Mungo's, where he then spent the next twenty odd years trying to unsuccessfully choke on his own tongue. Yeah, Snape was scary.

"_Mr Malfoy!_" McGonagall hissed, snapping Draco out of his reverie wondering how exactly one went about choking on their tongue.

"er…actions?" Draco said working his tongue around the chewed bits of biscuit in his mouth.

"Yes, Malfoy! Your actions! What were you thinking? And how _dare _you do it in _my classroom_?" McGonagall was doing the shrill cat-screech again, and Draco wished she wouldn't – it was making his head hurt, along with everything else that was aching in his body.

"uh…what exactly did I do?" Draco finished meekly as McGonagall's face attained several more shades of furious red and her lips thinned more – if that was possible.

And now that he considered it, Draco _really _didn't know what had happened, and that was alarming to him to say the least. The last thing he remembered was Weasley attempting to strangulate him, and before that there was something about Potter…_Potter!_ That's it! There was something involving Potter. Something he _did _involving _Potter_. Something he _did to Potter!_

_Dear Merlin! No!_

And then Draco promptly started choking on his tongue, inadvertently answering his own previous question.

McGonagall thumped him on the back until his choking subsided into a hacking cough, spewing bits of Ginger Snap everywhere.

"Thanks," Draco gasped. McGonagall shrugged, something in her expression told him that she had saved his life a tad reluctantly. _Cow!_

Still, this was the time for desperate measures and faked politeness.

"um…Professor? Could you please tell me what exactly have I done? – I don't seem to recall too well…" Draco added the awkward laugh at the end for good measure.

McGonagall's face took on a pinched look and her nostrils flared, she seemed to think he was purposefully riling her up by being cheeky. _Old, tartan-wearing batty cow!_

As McGonagall paused to consider whether to humour him or beat him over the head with the biscuit tin, Draco held his breath and prayed, _prayed_ that he hadn't done something, _something _that would force him to perform an _Avada _over himself.

"I have never seen a student behave in my class in such a way!" she burst out angrily, her mouth set in a stern line.

Draco prayed some more.

"I must impress upon you the seriousness of the statement when I say that such conduct will not be tolerated in this school –ever!"

Draco entertained the thought of doing a good deed for once in his life, even help the Firsties over the Trick Stair instead of pushing them in it – _but, Merlin, please!_

"Physically assaulting a fellow student! And especially when it was absolutely unprovoked. Shameful-!"

"Wait. I just _punched_ Potter? Oh, by Morgana's flying bloomers! Thank you!" Draco said none too fervently. And now that he finally noticed it, his hand was a bit bruised around the knuckles, he hadn't felt the throbbing as it was lost in the overall numbness of his body.

McGonagall paused mid-rant and gave him a withering look.

"Yes, Malfoy. You 'just' punched Mr Potter in the jaw! And may I ask you to explain your actions before I give you a year's worth of detentions?"

"He must have deserved it! I didn't do it!" Draco proclaimed promptly. Relieved enormously that he 'just' socked Potter, his brain instantly reverted to the old Slytherin tried and tested stand-byes – when guilty, deny.

"You didn't do it?" McGonagall repeated slowly, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Yes!" said Draco. "I don't even remember punching him!"

"You don't remember," she repeated in a dry tone.

"Aha," Draco nodded.

"One moment I was looking at his quill," Draco suddenly felt himself blushing for some reason but brushed it away, "and then I was being murdered by Weasley!"

McGonagall raised an eyebrow at him, clearly disbelieving, and then walked around the desk to sit in her high-backed tartan chair.

"You don't remember assaulting a fellow student and creating a ruckus in my class?" she asked in an even tone, with what was a laudable amount of patience.

Draco nodded again. He was aware that he was starting to resemble a bobble-head.

McGonagall continued to peer at him, her fingers steepled in front of her – it was such a Dumbledore-ish thing that Draco stifled a snort. After a few minutes of absolute silence Draco started to fidget nervously under the unblinking gaze and had an overwhelming urge to say something or even confess– _damn, that was effective. Must remember to try it out on someone next time._

"uh…I really don't know what happened. But I didn't punch Potter—er, not consciously!" he added hastily as her eyes narrowed.

He looked down at the knuckles of his right hand and felt McGonagall's gaze on it too. He gulped.

"So I _might _have punched him," he said quietly looking into his lap. But his head shot up the next instant, coming up with various possibilities.

"But I wasn't aware of doing it! Honest! It was like – it was like I was bewitched! I had no idea of what I was doing! Yeah – I might have even been _Imperius_ed!" he said with conviction in his voice now. Being _Imperius_ed – it certainly explained why he didn't remember doing it, Merlin knew he would enjoy socking Potter's ugly mug, even lovingly preserve it in memory, and so the most logical explanation for him completely blacking out the event would be –

"You mean someone placed you under an _Imperius_ curse – an_ Unforgivable_, whose use guarantees a life sentence in Azkaban – just so that you could punch Potter?"

"Yes?" he chanced meekly. McGonagall's eyebrow ascended dangerously towards her hair line.

"Its probable –Potter does have many enemies," he tried to rally weakly. "It's the only explanation!"

McGonagall stared at him and then pinched the bridge of her nose.

"Mr Malfoy, you've wasted enough of my time today. I refuse to further listen to your nonsense-"

"Its not nonsense! I'm willing to testify under Veritaserum!" Draco hoped his desperate bluff would work.

"—to your nonsense. Detention every Thursday with Mr Filch for a month! Report at eight O'clock tonight for you first detention. Now, kindly remove yourself from my office."

Draco sensed that she dearly wanted to drag him off by the ear out of the office and hastily made for the door. Only, the door swung inwards before he could take a few steps towards it and Draco's heart jumped into his throat as watched Snape enter with much flapping of robes, closely followed by Dumbledore.

"Mr Malfoy," Dumbledore acknowledged him, as he stood rooted to the spot and probably gaped like a fish. Snape had just deposited himself in of the chairs without comment; he strangely avoided looking at Draco. _Oh, this really couldn't bode well for him._

"Headmaster!" McGonagall sounded as surprised as he was. "Mr Malfoy was just leaving."

"Oh, that would not do, I'm afraid. Mr Malfoy is very much needed here," Dumbledore seemed amused and he bloody _twinkled_ his eyes at Draco.

"uh," said Draco intelligently.

"Indeed," Dumbledore agreed solemnly.

"Albus?" McGonagall sounded confused.

"Minerva," he said politely.

"Malfoy?" she asked bewildered.

"Ginger Snaps!" exclaimed the old, twinkly-eyed fool.

"uh," Draco said trying to slink away to the door before anyone noticed.

"Malfoy!" McGonagall roared catching him in the act.

"Professor!" Draco whinged and tried to appeal to his Head of House.

"Severus!" she said warningly.

"Severus," Dumbledore said mildly, biting into a biscuit.

"Oh, for the love of Merlin!" Snape finally shouted. Which finally had the happy effect of everyone freezing to look at him, and Dumbledore happily popped another treat into his mouth.

"Albus, what do you want?" McGonagall tried again. "And why does Mr Malfoy need to be here? I don't know if you've found out but Mr Malfoy here-"

"Assaulted Potter? Yes, we know, thank you," Snape interrupted. "How do you know he did it? Or if he wasn't bewitched to do it?" he asked blithely looking at his fingernails.

Draco silently cheered his Professor on.

McGonagall's eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. She opened her mouth to argue but Dumbledore raised a palm for her to stop.

"Minerva, no one is questioning whether Mr Malfoy is guilty or not. I'm sure there are a classroom full of witnesses," Dumbledore's lips quirked up a little.

_Why that partial, old coot! It was just not fair! Wasn't there any justice anymore? Did no one needed to hear the other side of things? _Draco fumed silently and bemoaned his own victim state.

"And I'm also certain that Mr Malfoy wasn't under any bewitchment either," his beard twitched as he glanced at Snape.

Draco was outraged. _That was a lie! Enchantment was the only logical explanation! May be the whole thing was a conspiracy by the old, barmy I-luv-Gryffindor coot. Yes! It was apparent that he was always jealous of his good looks and the Malfoy name. And this was all a convoluted plan to make Draco's life miserable. Maybe the coot had himself placed him under Imperius! It was a plot by both Potter and Dumbledore! To make him punch Potter so that he grievously injured his hand! Thereby incapacitating him! Yes! What a nefarious plan… _

"I've already established that and Malfoy would be serving detention with Filch," McGonagall said interrupting Draco's silent fuming and wilful thoughts that were growing more fantastical by the second.

"Oh, that won't be necessary, Minerva," Dumbledore said starting on his third biscuit; he looked up to see McGonagall's shocked expression. "Oh, don't worry, Mr Malfoy here will be attending detention –but not with Mr Filch."

She looked confused, which was exactly how Draco was feeling and more because Snape seemed to be determined to not look at him.

"Are you aware of a new decree passed by the Ministry, Mr Malfoy?" Dumbledore turned to look at Draco standing stupidly in the middle of the room.

"uh."

_That sounded so clever,_ Draco mentally smacked himself.

"Educational Decree Number One-Hundred And Thirty-Four," Dumbledore recited looking back at McGonagall, "It states that every educational institution in Britain is required to have on the staff a trained professional who would specifically cater to the needs of the students' psychological needs, helping to cope with stress, dilemmas or any excessive demands on their fragile, developing minds – to ensure the well-being of their mental states and healthy development of their psyches. The professional would also help students cope with emotional states, common to the developing adolescents, and offer adequate help in a friendly, secure, lawful and professional manner."

McGonagall looked gob-smacked, while Snape covered his eyes with a hand, Dumbledore just looked amused and hummed to himself. Draco just wanted to hit his head on something hard as he got an inkling to what exactly all this had to do with him.

"The Ministry sent the 'trained professional' this morning, and he is delighted to begin his work at Hogwarts and eager to help our student population," Dumbledore began mildly after a few minutes lapsed. "And Mr Malfoy I'm sure you'll be pleased to know that you'll be the first one to receive his professional help and guidance to cope with any or all emotional or psychological problems that had surely caused you to attack a fellow classmate without provocation."

Dumbledore wasn't laughing but Draco knew he was enjoying himself immensely.

"Minerva," he addressed the stunned Professor, "we must welcome to our staff the very capable Mr D J Prod –seems like a capital fellow."

"uh," Draco groaned miserably.

McGonagall stared, Snape still covered his eyes and Dumbledore _twinkled._

**A/N : ** uh…review please? Pretty please? :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two :**

As D J Prod surveyed his new 'office', he found it difficult to not let out a groan.

The room was circular and had a high vaulted ceiling; the place must have been a make-shift Owlery once – judging by the moulted feathers and bird droppings littering most of the floor, and that unmistakeable funky smell that clung to every surface. Spider webs, turned brown with settled dust, hung thick and low – looking like cottony tapestries. And beneath all the inches of dust and muck he could almost hear the scurry of small rodent feet. Apparently, someone had not received the memo for a spot of cleaning up here.

Resignedly, he took out his wand and set about casting several of the cleaning spells he knew. The end result did not look as squeaky-clean as he had hoped, but at least now the room wouldn't promptly kill someone with allergies.

He levitated the few boxes containing all his worldly possessions into the small storage-room and conjured necessary furniture. He finally stepped into the middle of the room and surveyed what was to be his work place for who knew how long…he replayed the conversation he had had earlier that week with the Minister himself.

OoOoO*~***~*

D J Prod had received an official looking Owl informing him to report to the Ministry at the specified time and date; it had the word 'URGENT' stamped across it. He had dutifully done so, and was bewildered to no small mount when he had been ushered immediately towards the office of the Ministry of Magic himself, complete with an escort of two surly looking Aurors.

Heart almost beating outside of his chest and his head at the point of explosion as he tried vainly to recall what exact crime he had committed to warrant this, but his life up till that point had been so mundane and uneventful – painfully boring, even – that he could come up with nothing even vaguely incriminating. But there had been that one time when he had got absolutely sloshed last Christmas and had got violently sick behind the Christmas tree near the Portkey Office – the Portkey Handlers were enraged, having slaved over decorating the tree for two days with various old portkeys (such as dog whistles, mittens, keys, and curiously a large number of small coloured metal cylinders with 'DuraCell' written on them), they had threatened to portkey the perpetrator to New Jersey when caught. He had wisely stayed off that floor since then. May be someone had now found out and had reported him. It must have been that Handler Susbean – he _had_ been looking at him funny since The Incident. And now he was being dragged across the plush purple carpet to the Minister's office; may be to be publicly humiliated for befouling the tree, or even fired, or may be he was going to be thrown into Azkaban…_damn you, Susbean! And damn Plenwitt to eternal hell for making my life miserable! _He cursed under his breath as he was shoved into the office, and the door immediately closed behind him.

"Hello, Mr Prod!" it was Minister Fudge, rising from his seat behind the glossy, mahogany desk. "I hope you've been doing well?"

Fudge smiled genially and extended his hand towards him. Confused, he clasped the Minister's podgy hand within his own sweaty palms and just stared.

"Please, do sit," Fudge said withdrawing his hand and surreptitiously wiping it inside his robe pocket.

He ambled into one of the chairs and continued to stare.

"Tea?" Fudge asked pointing at a small pot on a silver tray. He shook his head.

"Alright, then," Fudge smiled again.

"Now, Mr Prod," Fudged launched again after a few moments, "I hear you are quite an asset to the Ministry. Your superior-" he rummaged within a file set before him, "—Mr Plenwitt at the Ministry Files Division informs me that you've been an excellent employee of the Ministry for the past…" he looked once again into the file.

"Eight years, sir – nine by the end of this month," Prod supplied in a small voice. He had no idea why the Minister himself was going through his work records, and if he knew that wanker Plenwitt, he wouldn't have _ever_ described him as an 'asset'. In fact Plenwitt was someone who would be the primary suspect if he ever got poisoned, or stabbed by a quill, or choked on a hanger (Prod had eavesdropped on some of his _Superior's_ homicidal mutterings regarding him). In short, Plenwitt was a first-class wanker who had it in for him since the first day on his job and he had accidentally eaten the last remaining blueberry cupcake baked by his mother (Prod maintained that the said cupcake was on _his _desk and therefore its ownership automatically transferred to him) and the petty wanker had harboured a grudge ever since. Plenwitt was the reason he had nearly died of Fire Whisky induced over-dose on Christmas Eve, as he had evilly spiked the bowl of pumpkin juice and enchanted it to make it undetectable..

"Ah!" Fudge exclaimed happily. "Almost a decade! Almost a decade of exemplary service as a File Division Assistant, I dare say."

"Junior Assistant," Prod mumbled.

"Splendid! Splendid!" Fudge said clasping his hands together. Prod frowned; seemed like he wasn't being fired afterall, and he got the feeling that neither did the issue at hand seem to revolve around an ornamental tree standing in a pool of sick.

"Mr Prod," Fudge addressed him again looking down at the file, "can I call you, er, D J?"

"Just call me Prod!" he said hastily. "Prod will be fine."

"Very well then," Fudge closed the file and rested his intertwined fingers over it. "So, Prod, do you agree that the Ministry has been doing a rather remarkable job, if I can say so myself, in these Dark times?"

"Yes, sir!" he said without missing a beat, because one of the only things he had learnt at his time in the Ministry was that you always agreed to your boss - whether you really meant it or not. Fudge smiled.

"And would you say you are a loyal employee of the Ministry?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Jolly good, my man!" Fudge beamed. "So, you can be depended upon to be entrusted with matters of utmost importance, matters so delicate that their exposure might threaten national security? Matters I am reluctant to even share with my closest aides?"

Fudge furrowed his brow and peered at him solmenly.

"Y-Yes, sir," Prod said with a bit of hesitation.

"Splendid!" the Minister exclaimed again. "So, I take it that the matter I'm going to discuss with you would not go beyond the walls of this office?"

"Yes, sir," Prod said now slightly alarmed – _the Minister wanted to discuss matters of National importance with him? _"I mean, I'd never disclose anything that would jeopardise the Ministry."

"Good," said the Minister, "Now, have you heard about the new Educational Decree Number One-Hundred And Thirty-Four?"

"er, no sir," Prod said still unsure what all this had to do with him.

"It states," began the Minister extracting a mauve-coloured parchment with the Ministry Seal from the file and reading its contents, "that every educational institution in Britain is required to have on the staff a trained professional who would specifically cater to the needs of the students' psychological needs, helping to cope with stress, dilemmas or any excessive demands on their fragile, developing minds – to ensure the well-being of their mental states and healthy development of their psyches. The professional would also help students cope with emotional states, common to the developing adolescents, and offer adequate help in a friendly, secure, lawful and professional manner."

Fudge finished and put the parchment away, "quite a useful little Decree, you might agree. My aides, er, the chaps at British Wizarding Educational Reforms Council have just sent me the draft to sign on – hardworking little buggers they are!"

"er," said Prod very confused.

"Now, you may already be aware of my concerns regarding how the tender, impressionable minds of young witches and wizards of our country can be easily influenced, especially by - shall we say—certain manipulations by the wrong forces?" Fudge began and Prod's confusion deepened. "And I'm sure you can appreciate the dangers of such manipulations, especially in our educational institutions?"

"er, yes," Prod agreed.

Fudge launched into speech :

"Good fellow! And now, perhaps, you would understand my concerns regarding the nature of information given to students and whether it may be knowingly intermixed with dangerous propaganda against the Ministry's authority? Imagine, my boy, of what that would lead to! The students must be protected!"

Prod backed away slightly from the desk to avoid being sprayed with spit.

"And the Ministry _shall_ protect the dear students! I would do everything in my power to stop the brain-washing of students at Hogwarts!" the Minster exclaimed passionately and took several breaths to calm himself down.

_Hogwarts?_ The pieces suddenly fell together in Prod's mind after the Minister had let slip the real issue behind all of this. _Of course, Hogwarts!_ Everything now made sense; Fudge's paranoid obsession with Dumbledore 'brain-washing' his students was the subject of many hilarious gags doing the rounds at the Ministry. The sneaky, under-handed intention behind the whole Decree became glaringly clear to him. He could only imagine the public's reaction when the Minister's latest attempt to interfere at Hogwarts would be revealed eventually –and Prod had no doubt it would because the Minister's hare-brained schemes rarely succeeded (Ministry employees still winced at the whole Umbridge Fiasco). But, Prod still did not understand where he featured in the Minister's latest master plan.

"So, Prod, my dear fellow!" said Fudge, apparently calmed enough. "I see in your records that you have quite a bit of experience in the area of Mind Healing the muggle way—what they call, er, Psch Artery?"

"Psychiatry," Prod corrected automatically, his brain numbed by what he thought Fudge was suggesting. _Experience?_ Sure, if that's what one would call the one year stint at his distant cousin's practice as a secretary! It had been right after schooling and he had been aimless about his career, and taken the job for the lack of anything better to do, before finally ending up stuck as a faceless file-pusher at the lowest rungs of the Ministry.

"Yes, yes –quite that," Fudge nodded. "I can see that I was right in assuming you were accomplished at it! I'm now sure you can handle the job very well."

_Accomplished?_ Yes, he had become quite accomplished at answering muggle telephones and time-tabling appointments, and also was adept at re-arranging magazines and surreptitiously conjuring a never-ending supply of tissues for the extra-depressed patients in the waiting room.

"Splendid!" said Fudge joyously; Prod was beginning to hate that word. "You will be posted at Hogwarts within the week."

"B-but sir –!" Prod protested, finally finding his tongue.

"Now, Prod, the Ministry shall expect regular reports from Hogwarts – especially when you suspect matters of any…_irregularities._ You must earn the students' trust by helping them in any way and strive to reinforce their belief in the Ministry. I trust you understand?"

"Yes, sir," Prod said. _Interrogate the kids with the ruse of counselling and spy on what Dumbledore fed them –got that._ "But, sir-" he tried to address the most important issue.

"Splendid," Fudge said with a mad gleam in his eyes and rubbing his palms together. "Congratulations on being appointed the first Hogwarts' Psychiarserist!"

"Psychiatrist," Prod corrected dryly.

"Yes, that," said Fudge absently, immersed in his own clever scheming, and waved him out of the office.

OoOoO

"Right at the top of the North Tower," Prod sighed to himself. "Yes, I can see how popular the hike up a few million stairs is going to be."

He had placed sconces on the wall and levitated a few of the Ever Burning candles over his desk. He prodded the couch (that he knew was a mainstay in every shrink's office) with his knee; it was not as comfortable as he would have liked it to be, but it'd have to do. It was a little past noon and he wondered whether he should go down for lunch in the Great Hall, as Dumbledore had suggested.

He had met Albus Dumbledore for the first time in person that morning as he Floo'ed into the Hogwarts Headmaster's office. Even hearing and reading about the man's eccentric ways had not quite prepared Prod to face the real thing. Dumbledore wore a sweeping lemon-green robe with blue stars sprinkled over it; it inadvertently reminded Prod of Fudge's Bowler hat and had nearly caused him to gag. Dumbledore had proceeded to politely enquire about him, and even seemed happy about his appointment, which left Prod confused because surely Dumbledore must have realised Fudge's ulterior motive. But Dumbledore had continued describe about the Hogwarts castle and grounds, and where his office and quarters would be and kindly added he was welcome to his office if he needed to consult him on anything. He finished by stating that he was sure the students would benefit immensely from his professional help; Prod had stared a bit stiffly and the blue eyes behind the half-moon glasses had twinkled, and Prod swore he saw Dumbledore's beard twitch minutely at the same moment he heard an amused squawk somewhere behind him in the shadows. And then Dumbledore was showing him out of the office, informing that the meals would be served in the Great Hall or he could deliver it in his rooms by calling on a house-elf.

Prod had then ambled up the long distance up the North Tower, getting lost twice before being redirected by a few friendly portraits. Panting, he had stood before the last flight of stairs, cursing Fudge and Dumbledore under his breath for using him in their stupid, little feud, when suddenly someone breathed over his neck. Prod had shrieked and whirled around, hastily looking for his wand in his pocket.

A glittering, multi-coloured apparition loomed over him and still unable to locate his wand he nervously took a step backwards.

"I saw you," the figure whispered.

Prod backed away further and the figure came into clearer view—it was a woman, the most glittering woman he had ever seen, with all the trinkets of little beads of glass and gem stones she had adorned herself with; her glasses were askew and caused her eyes to be magnified bizarrely; and she seemed to be quite sloshed if the strong smell of sherry on her breath was any indication.

"I saw you," she repeated swaying a little, her trinkets tinkling along with her, "in my cup- tea cup!"

The old hen was undoubtedly barmy.

"Oh, yes! I knew of your imminent arrival…" she blathered on in what she presumed was with a mysterious flair, and then paused dramatically, her many beads and trinkets shimmering, "but I must warn you, my dear! Great danger and misfortune lie in your future, and they lay await to bespoil your endeavours! Beware, for these things are preordained!"

She nodded tremulously all her trinkets jingling in tandem.

Prod looked at her in stunned silence. The woman took a few, quick steps forwards and peered into his face; her eyes enormous and gaze slightly unfocussed.

"You're not a student, are you?" she squinted at him. "No – too old, but short."

Prod glared at the bat.

"Must be a new Professor," she mumbled to herself, abruptly turning around unsteadily, and walked away from him leaving behind the stale smell of alcohol.

Prod could still hear her mutterings:

"Always employing new Professors…when there's no need…_Frenzy –the pony_!...now, where did I put that last bottle…"

And then the woman retreated up a silver ladder and into, what he assumed, was her lair in the hole in the ceiling.

It had taken Prod a few minutes to recover and had resolved to stay away from the bat and her lair in the future. But, then had come to the horrifying realisation that his quarters were just above hers and there was no way he could make his way down without encountering his neighbour.

OoOoO

His stomach rumbled but the muscles in his legs protested at the long walk down to the Great Hall, and so he decided to summon a house-elf into his quarters, which were thankfully just across the corridor outside. They were also mercifully clean, yet nondescript with a plain four-poster bed and a desk in the corner.

He settled into his bed for a short nap when an owl flew in and carrying a letter from the Ministry. It looked like a form with a list of various questions:

'_is the student against the Ministry's policies?'_

'_does the student have any plans to help D. usurp the Minister's position?'_

'_is the student planning on actively participating in a siege on the Ministry under the guidance of D.?'_

'_does the student mention about an 'army' anytime during session?'_

'_would you say the student's loyalties lie more with D. than the Ministry?'_

And the questions continued in that vein until the end of the page; there was a small post script reminding him post the form as soon as possible to the Ministry.

_Brilliant, _he groaned into his pillow.

And by late afternoon he had been owled the name of the first student along with a short history from Dumbledore.

Prod had looked at the name, blanched, and proceeded to groan some more.

He was starting to miss Plenwitt.

OoOoO

Draco was trudging along the edge of the lake with his hands pushed into pockets and kicking sulkily at a pebble once in a while, aiming at the giant squid resting by the shore, when he suddenly noticed that it had grown dark.

He checked his watch and was alarmed to see that it was about ten minutes to eight O'clock. Kicking one last stone at the squid and watched as it lazily uncurled one tentacle to wave in the air in the general direction from which it deemed the stone had come from, Draco turned around and took off for the castle, slipping a little on the wet grass.

He had missed dinner, but had had no desire to sit next to Pansy intoning _'well, you did do it' _while he whinged piteously. _There was a distinct lack of sympathetic people in this world, _he observed sadly.

He entered the castle and started immediately on the stairs to the North Tower, where he was to be serving detention. Dumbledore had mentioned 'Psychyes…' something and that he was going to need it. It had sounded like a lot of hokey shite to him; and when he learnt that it was something _muggle_, he had obviously burst out that he wouldn't undertake shite like that even under the pain of death, but then he was persuaded otherwise under the pain of spending the night with Filch scrubbing the toilets with his toothbrush.

_His life had failed him—epically_, he moaned to himself.

OoOoO

**A/N : **ugh. Sorry. The chaps will get better, I promise. The funny stuff that _actually _explains the title and this fic's plot will be in the next chappie!

P.S. you know, I'll admit to being a pathetically insecure person - one who needs constant reassurances that the writing isn't really that big of a major suckage. So, yes, reviews are awaited with baited breath.

P.P.S. has someone caught the absolutely stupid and lame pun in this fic, yet? Lemme kno.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three **

Draco ran out of breath by the time he reached the top stair of the tower. Panting and wheezing, it was all he could do to weakly bang on the door. Someone called for him to enter and he roughly pushed the door inwards and stepped into the room.

The man sitting behind the desk looked up from a sheaf of papers at him. He was a man of small built, with brown hair and small brown eyes set in pale, round face. He wore faded dark blue robes which had a layer of dust on the shoulders and collar. There was nothing remarkable about the man –forgettable and easily lost in a crowd. Draco's derision grew; the man had his wand stuck behind his ear.

"Oh, this?" the man asked noticing Draco's eyes on the wand.

"I always seem to forget where I keep it," he explained with a shrug. "This way atleast I'll be able to get my hands on it before being hexed to pieces!"

Draco pondered about testing that little theory of his, but desisted - he didn't need any more detentions, anyway.

The man cleared his throat.

"I am D J Prod," he said extending his hand; Draco considered it with a raised eyebrow and then turned around to sit down on the couch, which was the only seat present on this side of the desk.

"And yes, please sit…" the man with the bloody stupid name trailed off uncertainly.

Prod or whatever hell the man was called tapped his fingers on the desk nervously for a few minutes and rearranged the papers rather unnecessarily, apparently trying to steel himself or something. _Hmph._ Draco felt a sneer forming on his face: _plebes can so easily be cowed._

The man cleared his throat.

"So, Mr Malfoy – er Draco?" the icy glare directed at him made Prod blanch. "So, Mr Malfoy, then," he said hastily.

Draco crossed his arms across his chest and sat ram rod straight and set his face into an arrogant scowl; he hoped his body language would convey some of his unquestionable superiority, and the intense disapproval he felt at being there in the stupid cylindrical room and on the rather lumpy _red _(_Ew!_) couch_._

"It says here," he indicated the papers, "that you er, had in class um, assaulted a student?"

Draco looked on as the man blathered incoherently, and raised his eyes in the general direction of Heaven.

"So, what made you, er, I mean was there any provocation involved?" he mumbled still staring down at his papers so he could avoid looking at Draco.

"I didn't do it!" Draco snapped; he was getting tired of repeating it, and more bloody tired of people giving him an incredulous look when he said it. Just like the Prod man was giving him now.

"Ah," the man said slowly.

_Was that a disbelieving tone? _Draco was livid. "Do you think I'm lying?"

"No!" the man said hurriedly, "I was only, erm…so what really did happen, then?"

"You want to _really _know?" Draco sneered and narrowed his eyes. "Alright. I'll tell you -what happened was that _I _have been _victimised_ in this giant conspiracy; one, whose aim seems to be to tarnish my reputation, destroy my mental peace and cause damage to my person! A dastardly and nefarious plot to chip away at my resilient strength and sully my soul until I remain but a hollow shell of despair and nothingness, eternally cursed to suffer the pain of humiliation and languishing at the bottom of the sea of darkest loneliness—a truly horrid plight designed for me by my enemies. Although, I have to admit that it is a rather ingenious and clever ploy—I give them that." Draco sniffed, and admitted to himself he rather had nice way with words; but, of course that was obvious – he was a Malfoy afterall and not some cultureless, illiterate mountain-troll like _someone_ he knew.

Prod could only gape at him. "And who would you say is behind this, er, ploy?" he asked rather worriedly.

Draco looked at him as if he was a sloth with brain damage, which probably wouldn't be that big a stretch of the truth.

"Dumbledore, why of course!" Draco said as though it was glaringly obvious and rolled his eyes at the man for good measure.

"_ah,_" said Prod slowly, in a tone that Draco recognised that someone would use for when a five-year old declared that he was going to rule the world and that the bog-monsters in his cupboard were his first minions, aiding him to loot all the ice-cream in the world.

Draco wanted to slap the man. Or _Avada _him. Either; He wasn't choosy.

OoOoO

Prod had just carefully adjusted the papers he had received from Dumbledore on his desk, when someone banged on the door. Quickly taking a seat in the chair he called out a 'come in!'

The door burst inwards and a rather muddy black shoe clad foot stepped onto the threshold. The figure entered the room and light fell on a tall, lanky looking pale young man. He had silver-blond hair arranged in slight disarray. His grey eyes narrowed upon seeing him and the rather pointy features of his face were set in a scowl.

He looked startlingly like his father, right down to the derision in his sneer. Oh, Prod knew Lucius Malfoy alright; everyone at the Ministry did – crude, sniggered remarks described how Malfoy had Fudge tethered on a leash of generous 'donations' of Galleons. And it was a general consensus that he was a slimy, evil bastard who terrified the heebie-jeebies out of you. And this was his _son._

Prod had politely introduced himself but had been rather pointedly ignored. _Why, that impudent brat..!_

He had tried to calm down his nerves and the constant glaring by the young man wasn't helping much. Prod ducked his head and tried to stare at the table, chanting _'I can do this I can do this' _under his breath.

Finally he had composed himself enough to look at the young Malfoy and address the issue at hand. Only, he had _not _expected the lad to go on a spiel about some 'conspiracy'.

"And who would you say is behind this, er, ploy?" he had asked, genuinely concerned.

"Dumbledore, why of course!" the brat had drawled in a petulant tone.

_That _had certainly put things in perspective. Well, the brat had proved himself to be a _Malfoy_ alright.

"_ah,_" he had said, unable to think of a proper response. Draco Malfoy had glared at that.

Prod sighed to himself. He had been thinking of how exactly to go about this 'therapy' business for the past few days. He had even ventured into muggle London and bought a book called _The Idiot's Guide To Psychoanalyses – A general assessment of the human mind_in a thrift store; and had got _Flying Over A Cuckoo's Nest –How to help a mate going for sixes and sevens_for free with the former.

He had learnt enough after reading the books to know how exactly to go about this; he fished out a notepad and a quill and ink pot from his pockets and laid them out on the table, aware of the Malfoy heir's scrutinising glare on him. He then carefully wrote '_Malfoy, Draco' _at the top of the page.

"Uh, Mr Malfoy you were saying…please, continue," he said with his quill poised ready over the page.

Malfoy's pale, silver eyes were fixed on the quill. "Huh? Oh, yeah – as I said, Dumbledore tricked me into this whole mess!"

'_Persecution complex' _Prod wrote and marked it as point number one. "So, you say that you did _not_ assault a fellow student, and that it was actually Professor Dumbledore who had done it?" he asked.

"Yes! Wait –no," Malfoy said distractedly craning his neck trying to read what was being written from his position on the couch. "I never said that Dumbledore attacked – he may have, I don't know – all I know is that I don't remember hitting anyone."

"Hmm," Prod intoned. _'either is lying—concocting wild theories, or may have blocked out the incident—but why?'_

"What are you writing down?" Malfoy burst out suddenly, sounding annoyed and petulant. "I demand you show me!"

"Oh, nothing," Prod said mildly, quite enjoying the brat's frustration. "Just some notes on this session; you need not be bothered: they're very boring."

The young man huffed and leaned back on the couch, crossing his arms more tightly, and stared at the ceiling. Prod was amused at the childish display.

"So, you were saying something about Dumbledore…?" Prod prompted.

Malfoy maintained a stubborn silence.

Prod decided to try a different tack.

"So, if you were to have —_hypothetically – _punched the Mr er-" Prod sifted through the papers, "—Mr _Potter_?" he exclaimed shocked at reading the name on the parchment. _He punched the Wizarding world Saviour – the Boy Who Lived? Blimey! This one surely was a Malfoy through and through._

Malfoy had not even deigned to look at him at his exclamation. Prod decided to continue.

"So, hypothetically _if _you had punched Harry Potter, what do you say the reason could have been?"

Malfoy gave a small, irritated growl. Prod could feel a headache coming on.

"Alright," Prod decided to brush over the issue for the time being, "how would you describe your relationship with Mr Potter?"

_That _got him a reaction, alright. Malfoy leapt from the sofa, his eyes wild and his fists shaking.

"_What?_" He screeched. "What relationship? What the hell is it that you're implying? I am not in any relationship with _Potter!_" he took Potter's name with particular heartfelt loathing.

'_ah,' _Prod said to himself, _'interesting.'_

"Mr Malfoy, I was not implying anything. Calm down and take your seat."

He wrote down '_Potter_' on the note and made a small question mark next to it.

"What did you just write?" Malfoy's voice was attaining high levels of squeakiness and loudness.

"Nothing, nothing," Prod lied smoothly and again indicated for the young man to take his seat. "As I was asking, what would be your major emotion regarding Mr Potter?" he worded carefully.

"Hate. Loathing," Malfoy replied promptly. "A mutual feeling of deepest detestation."

Prod noted it down and Malfoy sat back on the couch.

"And when would you say it started?"

"The moment I laid eyes on the prat, I knew he would be of the insufferable breed."

"So, you don't like him? Why—if you could be specific?"

"I _abhor _him! He is the most sanctimonious, self-righteous Gryffindor on the face of the earth! Viewing the world from his stupid high horse, like the rest of the world is scum! Always so desperate for any kind of attention, I wouldn't be surprised if half the trouble he gets himself into isn't staged or purposeful – for a front page splash of his stupid mug in the papers! And the whole Boy Who Lived drivel - the whole sycophantic Wizarding world eating out of his hands! Who would actually want that stupid bloody ugly scar, anyway?"

Malfoy panted, angry splotches appearing on his pale face; it seemed like he had been _dying_ to say that out loud for ages. Prod had hastily written everything down. _'exhibits a lot of anger on the subject of Harry Potter.'_

"Mr Malfoy, I need you to be more specific: what particularly annoys you about him?"

"Potter annoys me by just _existing!_" Malfoy snapped.

_Oookay…_"Would you please describe the events leading up to your alleged assault on Mr Potter in class?" he ventured cautiously.

Malfoy glared daggers at him for a while, and then closed his eyes in resignation.

"It was right after lunch and a _Double _Transfiguration; Pansy was being an annoying chit and I was about to tell her off when I happened to look at Potter," he said rapidly. "And then I was being attacked by Weasley and given an unjust detention. And then, I ended up _here _with you."

"Wait, wait!" Prod said confused, "Aren't you forgetting something?"

"No," Malfoy replied churlishly. "I told you I don't remember what happened in between."

"You really don't remember?" Prod asked surprised.

"_No,_" Malfoy said irritated. "One moment I was looking at Potter scribbling his notes down illegibly – it's a wonder if it could be ever be read by any civilisation -then Potter was all frowny like his brain had been _Accio_ed out of his skull –which would have been probable if the gimp _actually _possessed a brain –and then I watched him chew on his quill, which aptly demonstrated his uncultured and barbaric upbringing! I mean, that is such a _disgusting _habit – I wouldn't be surprised if those muggles that raised him lived in caves, fed on rats and communicated via grunts with each other!...anyway, the only thing I remember after that was I was flying inexplicably towards the green-eyed git, focussed solely on his disgusting mouth sucking on the quill – surely, to teach that arrogantly red mouth a lesson!...and then everything went black, and I regained my senses to being strangled by Weasley… " he finished slowly.

'_Ah,'_ Prod thought to himself. Now, despite his under-achieving state in his life, Prod wasn't stupid. And he certainly wasn't stupid enough to not notice the issue at hand; it was actually blaringly clear if one listened, _really _ listened to the young Malfoy, and his very evident obsession with the Boy (who he said) Lived To Annoy Him. He smiled to himself – _Ah, it must be good to be young, and to be hopelessly misled by one's own feelings. _

"Stupid, four-eyed freak…those ugly, thick glasses belong at the bottom of the lake…Saint Potter and his snot-nosed, drooling fan club…godawful muggle rags – probably thinks would get him more sympathetic attention…hmmph…"

Prod could hear Malfoy muttering under his breath as he laid down once more on the couch and stared at the support beams of the high ceiling.

A plan suddenly formed in Prod's head. It was ingenious and technically he'd only be providing the slight _prod_ in the right direction; he was starting to quite enjoy this psycho-babble ordeal…._Oh! _he thought happily, _Dumbledore and Fudge are going to be so very sorry for using him as a pawn in their little feud!_

OoOoO

Draco was pondering about if Potter's eternally messy hair was really the result of a Dark Curse, as it was rumoured to be, when he suddenly realised that he had been absent-mindedly tugging at his own hair. He froze with shock and extracted his offending hand from his locks, and stared at it. _Merlin's balls! What was wrong with him? Mussing up his own hair, when he spent the better part of an hour in the morning smoothing it into its perfect state? _

Draco was so shocked at his own actions that he barely registered the evil, little laugh issuing from across the room.

"Mr Malfoy!"

Draco was startled and spun his head towards Prod.

"I was just wondering if you would answer a few of my questions." Prod began.

Draco raised a supercilious brow.

"How would you describe Potter – I mean how he looks- physically?"

"Why? Haven't you ever seen a picture of the git in some publication somewhere?" Draco said dryly. "It is rather hard to ignore; I've tried."

"Yes, yes," Prod waved dismissively. "But, I want you to describe him – how _you _see him."

"I guess he's just a scrawny git," Draco said, observing that Prod wrote down the information rapidly, "looks like an underfed orphan –which he is—short, but not that short as he is about my height; lanky; has atrocious hair that defies all laws of gravity; face is plain and looks a bit pinched; has okay looking eyes I guess, but shame really that those stupid ugly glasses of his obscure them from view most of the time…"

Prod was nodding encouragingly and motioned him to go on.

"His clothes are an assault on the senses. I mean, you'd think the Wizarding World's Saviour would not go around looking like a tramp. Shabby, frayed and almost twice his size; he makes me think of a house elf-"

"What do you think makes him the Saviour, that everyone is sure he is?" Prod interrupted him making Draco scowl at the man. "Is he really that magically strong? Does he have any other special powers?"

Draco snorted. "If Potter is really that powerful, then he had been hiding it really well all these years. At best, he is mediocre in his magical education. You should see his Potions' mark."

"But surely, getting top marks in classes doesn't really measure one's inherent raw power, does it?" Prod prodded lightly.

"Well, that may be true," Draco said frowning, "you don't really have to be good at brewing the perfect Draught of Death, when all you can do in the battlefield with it is to dunk it over the enemy's head."

Prod grinned.

"And I suppose, Potter is fairly good with Spells and curses," Draco admitted grudgingly. "And also a damn go—I mean decent flier."

"Oh, yes, the TriWizard Championship quite illustrated that," Prod said remembering all the glowing articles about Potter's exploits in the papers.

"Yes, yes – famous, perfect Potter," Draco muttered darkly; although, Prod noticed that his expression lacked much of the sourness that was present in his tone.

"And all this would you say has made him conceited?" Prod ventured.

"Yes!" Draco said immediately. "I've been saying that for ages; but no one believes me!"

"And so, naturally, you detest him. Conceit is a very detestable trait, indeed," Prod placated him. "And how do you say this conceit has made him act, behave?"

"Potter thinks he is better that everyone! Strutting in the corridors- Professor and students fawning over him!" Draco said agitatedly.

"ah," Prod said soothingly. "So, how do _you _want him to behave? Surely, you must have some ideas on how Potter can better himself?"

"What?" Draco asked confused. "Well, may be…not be such a Griffindorkish stuck-up all the time, I guess…"

"And?" Prod prompted.

"Well, may be by looking presentable for once, and not like something the Giant Squid spit out—you know, tame that hair a bit, wear proper, decent robes…perhaps, go correct his eyesight magically or something—I'm surprised why it hasn't been done yet…"

Prod motioned for him to go on.

"uh, may be not glare so much all the time, especially at—I mean, before his face permanently freezes like that," Draco frowned. "And smile a bit—he doesn't look half that atrocious when he does that…and may be stop disgusting habits like chewing on quills!"

"Him chewing on his quill bothers you that much?" asked Prod raising his brows a little.

"Yes!" Draco said exasperatedly. "It is such a foul habit – sucking on a bloody bird feather like it's a lollypop, for Merlin's sake! Don't you see how distrac—I mean disgusting to look at that would be?"

Prod hid a grin as he scribbled in the notebook.

"So, I conclude that you quite dislike Mr Potter?"

_Geesh! What was the man's first clue?_

"_Yes"_ Draco said in a long suffering tone.

"And especially because he chews on bird feathers?"

"_Yes! _Wouldn't you hate someone like that, too?_"_

Prod _hmm_ed vaguely, and made more notes on the parchment; it was almost completely covered in inky, squiggly scribbles.

Prod abruptly put down his quill, placed his elbows on the notepad and looked at him, a small smile playing about his lips.

"Now, Mr Malfoy," he said pleasantly, "what _are _your feelings towards Harry Potter?"

OoOoO

Prod smiled at the young man sitting on the couch fiddling absently with the hem of his sleeves.

It was time to go for the kill.

OoOoO

Draco stared at the man. His _feelings _towards Potter? Wasn't that what he had been talking about for the better part this stupid session? _Merlin's balls! Was the man an imbecile?_ Draco was going to murder Dumbledore for inflicting this bloody torture on him.

The idiot seemed to be staring intently at him, apparently expecting an answer.

Draco rolled his eyes to Heaven.

"Haven't I already answered that?" he asked stonily.

"Have you?" Prod asked calmly. Draco looked annoyed and confused; Prod was starting to love this Psychoanalysis business—may be he could try it on Plenwitt sometime.

"Yes, I have!" snapped Draco, then faltered at the look on Prod's face. "Haven't I?" he asked slowly.

"I'm afraid you haven't _really _answered the most important issue," Prod said peering solemnly at him.

"uh, I haven't?" Draco said frowning slightly.

Prod nodded. "The most important issue, Mr Malfoy, is how you _truly _feel in the depths of your being."

_Huh?_ Draco wasn't really aware that he had any further hidden depths; Malfoys were proclaimed to be a rather shallow lot by the general populace – and Draco had had no reason to believe otherwise, until now.

"It is essential that we understand this, in order to solve the problem."

_What was the problem, again?_ Draco pondered, increasingly mystified.

"What, Mr Malfoy, we must know," Prod continued, "is how you feel in your _heart!"_

Draco looked gob-smacked and stared like a guppy-fish at the man: _ did he just say something about feeling through you __heart__? That was such stupid and improbable notion –and anyway, everyone knew that the Malfoys were above such common, vile, silly things like hearts and feelings; it was left for unfortunately ugly and poor people to do._

Prod's smile sagged a little as he looked at the young man's face.

"You know…" Prod said gesticulating wildly at his chest, then he sighed and sagged in the chair.

This was proving to be a tough cookie to crack.

_Yes!_ He thought getting an idea –perhaps specific examples would do.

"Yes, true feelings!" Prod rallied. "How did you feel during the incident –before the socking?" he added hastily.

Draco frowned thoughtfully.

"When you saw Potter and his quill?" Prod added helpfully.

Draco frowned some more.

"I don't know," he said shrugging. "How was I _supposed _to feel?"

"_Think!"_ Prod begged. "Visualise the scene and remember how you had felt at the time!"

Draco scrunched up his nose and thought. He closed his eyes and replayed the scene in his head.

"I remember looking into brilliant emerald eyes – Potter has those distinctly unnatural coloured ones—his fringe kept falling into his eyes and I remember contemplating to chop them off myself…Potter was frowning, there's this small crease that forms between his brows whenever he does that…there was an ink splotch on his cheek—he was leaned so low over his writing—and I felt derision at his goody-two-shoes attitude, Potter is such a Hufflepuff sometimes. And then I had felt the sudden urge to scrub at the ink mark, not with _my _handkerchief ofcourse, the stain would never come off the silk, but with _something_, it was bloody bothering…"

Prod couldn't contain his smile.

"Potter started playing absent-mindedly with his quill…and I remember getting dizzy just by watching its course…and then – then he brought the eagle quill to his lips," Draco licked his own dry ones, "and then…and then…"

"Yes?" Prod queried in an amused tone.

But Draco could already see the images in his mind, moving in slow-motion: _the quill touched a pink bottom lip, then the mouth was opening slightly, the tip of a tongue came out to poke at the shaft of the quill and then disappeared instantly inside again; a warm breath ghosted outwards; and then the mouth closed around the tip…_ Draco felt his breathing becoming laboured, just as it had at that time, and it felt like something monstrously large had been conjured inside his chest –smothering him from inside. His head swayed and that buzzing had returned, like it had never left him in the first place; multicoloured stars erupted in his vision and he felt like he was swimming futilely in a sea of thick treacle. And above all these sensations that were creating a pandemonium in his skull, one thought had risen clearly to the surface, compelling him to obey it at once: he had been gripped by a sudden compulsion to yank the silly feather from Potter's mouth, because it was infuriatingly and obviously in the way…and then, suddenly those verdant eyes were focusing their full power at him…and then everything was obscured by darkness.

Draco's eyes snapped open. _Of course!_

Prod was looking at Draco expectantly.

Draco turned towards him with a stunned look.

"I, now, understand," he whispered; Prod's grin grew wider. "I can't believe how I didn't notice before."

Prod was nodding and smiling benevolently.

"Its Potter," Draco said softly to himself. "It has always been Potter."

"Yes," Prod said closing his eyes to savour the fact that it was through _his _help that the rather clueless young man before him was finally about to find truth and happiness; there was a warm, tingly feeling in his belly – and all this after just _one _session! Imagine what he could do with the other helpless souls. He could revolutionalize the world through his astounding skills!

"Potter," Draco said solemnly, "was the one to bewitch me."

"Yes –say what?" Prod snapped open his eyes.

"Potter was the one to place me under that, surely, Dark curse that caused me to act the way I had!" Draco was saying; there was a mad, feverish gleam in his eyes. "Yes! I see it all now – the buzzing, the entrancement to look into his accursed eyes (which allowed him place my mind under his control!), the whole ploy with the quill to distract me…It must have been a modified version of the _Imperius _curse –that's why it didn't alert anyone!"

"_What?"_ Prod was saying weakly, unable to believe his ears.

"Potter cursed me! With something unnatural and Dark!" Draco said with absolute conviction, his eyes over bright.

"B-but why? _Why _would he need to do something like that?" Prod said desperately, trying to bring back sanity into the proceedings.

_Why?_ _How the hell should he know, why! He didn't know how the mind of a deranged, power-happy, loon like Potter's worked, after all. May be he was after Draco's secret collection of ink pots or something._

"Don't ask me to fathom how the mind of _Potter's _works!" Draco replied snootily.

Prod stared in silence at him for a long time.

"So what do you propose to do now?" he asked almost fearfully.

"Stop Potter, of course!" Draco said at once. "Thwart his plans! Stop whatever he's doing -that he's doing to me!"

And then Malfoy left, muttering to himself.

Prod grabbed his notepad and flung it at the wall.

OoOoO

**A/N : ** Draco is thick.

And yes, he collects ink pots. –_shaddup!-_

ugh,I sound like a broken record, but please – R&R.

On another sad note, I've just been informed that my classes start tomorrow! Total number of hols I got? _Four _measly days…yes, I know – my life sucks… epically.

:(

Sorry about slow pace of the chaps…oh,well.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **long time, no…whateve..

And before you go the chapter – _why doesn't anyone Luv meeeee?_

Now that, that's out of the way…happy reading.

**Chapter Four **

Draco entered the Common Room in a daze, his mind whirring, barely aware of the journey from the North Tower to the Dungeons.

"So, has your sulk ended yet?"

Distracted from his musings he cast a cursory glance around the rather gloomy looking room lighted by a large, old-fashioned chandelier; and the fireplace with its charmed green flames casting everything in its unnatural tinge and making the shadows weave sinisterly on the dark stone walls with every undulation of the flames licking at the hearth; a few of the students milling about: some half concealed in shadowed corners (either clutching reading material which would definitely not be listed in the curriculum or even present on the dusty shelves of the Restricted Section of the library, or simply drawing up blue-prints of the next big, evil plan to take over the world like a true Slytherin), some in bottle-green armchairs or couches, or sprawled on the thick rug near the fireplace – like Pansy was currently placed, poring over a textbook with a quill poised over a half written parchment. Beside her, lounging in an armchair with the face almost hidden behind a large tome was undoubtedly Blaise with his long legs crossed gracefully at the knees.

"So, how did it go?" Pansy asked again, not looking up from her work.

Draco made a dismissive sound and moved to sit in the high-backed, leather armchair in front of the hearth; this was his favourite place to sit and to ponder on life's great mysteries or rather to chalk out his next brilliant scheme (mostly involving how to make Potter eat crow in the most painful and humiliating way) and brood darkly when the said scheme went kaput; and also sitting in it gave him a slightly evil-genius-extraordinaire, diabolical air (or so he liked to think) plus being nearest to the fire it made him feel warm and toasty in the otherwise dank and cool room. He tossed off a couple of Firsties curled up comfortably in the chair and sat down, placing his elbows on the armrests and steepling his fingers below his chin. He was quickly lost in thought again, staring unseeing into the emerald flames before him.

"Draco?"

He ignored her.

"Malfoy!" Pansy said irritably. Draco blocked her out, concentrating on the tendrils of fire; their captivating verdant hue was annoying him for some reason.

"Honestly, Malfoy! Stop being such a Hufflepuff Firstie: sulking over some silly detention!"

"Not that he didn't deserve it," Blaise drawled from behind his book; if there was anyone who could do the whole I'm-superior-to-you-in-every-way-bow-before-me drawl better than Draco it was him. It always managed to set Draco's teeth on edge and make him want to tear Zabini into little strips. "Doing something like that in front of witnesses and especially a Professor! Even First years aren't that stupid," Blaise continued in that insufferable drawl managing to infuse a bloody sneer into it, eventhough Draco couldn't see past the book covering Zabini's stupid face.

Draco was tempted to flip a bird in Zabini's general direction but desisted in favour of glaring into the fire (besides Blaise wouldn't be able to see it past his stupid book, which would make it rather useless), his thoughts once again on Potter's green—er, Potter's evil plan. He would have to remember to stick a note to the back of the armchair saying that the next person to annoy him would be subjected to an entire page from _1001 Nasty Hexes : How To Make Them Wish They Never Met You_ the next time he wanted some quiet time.

"_Dracoooo…"_

He suddenly found Pansy perching on the armrest, she blew icy-cold breath over the back of his neck making him jump up a foot and shudder violently.

"Merlin's bullocks, woman!" he exclaimed, rubbing a hand over his neck.

Pansy tittered and a few peculiar, halting sniggers sounded from a dark corner. Draco sat back down making a rude gesture at the skulking figure in the shadows.

"Here," Pansy said offering a bar of Honeyduke's Chocolate to him and popping another Ice Mice into her mouth; her teeth chattered a little as he bit into the chocolate.

"Thanks, Parkinson," Draco said: well, Pansy certainly had her uses when she was not being an annoying chit. He took another ravenous bite to pacify his stomach which had been lowly grumbling about the lack of dinner.

Pansy took advantage of his gratitude and preoccupation with stuffing himself with chocolate by immediately plunging her fingers into his hair and proceeded to drag them through it and smoothen it; Draco decided to allow this –for now, atleast—plus it felt really good to have his throbbing head massaged.

"So, Draco, what did they make you do?" Pansy pressed on again with a slight purr in her voice: Draco swore Pansy sometimes acted like such a Kneazle – a rabid Kneazle maybe, but one nonetheless.

"Did they make you write lines?" Pansy continued with a snicker, "or did they get that nasty Filch to order you around? Did the nasty man make poor Draco scrub toilets? Poor dear!" She gave him a little hug; the trouble with Pansy was that he never knew whether she was being truly sympathetic or mocking him. "Or did he tie you up with his nasty little shackles, strung you by your fingers and toes—like he always promises to do- and whip you around! That wretched, little deviant of a Squib!" Well, that answered that.

Sniggers issued from the corner again. Draco clenched his teeth.

"Oh, wait – you couldn't have had detention with Filch: I saw him scrubbing the corridor outside the library and cooing to his ugly cat just a while ago," Pansy paused with a finger poised dramatically over her lower lip; Draco rolled his eyes.

"You did mention something about Dumbledore…" she said slowly. "Speaking of Dumbledore, seeing that you missed dinner you wouldn't know, he made an announcement—something about a Ministry approved Mind Healer appointed at Hogwarts, now, what was his name again…anyway! Dumby said that his _services_ were available to all" –she snickered—"and that we could go and have a heart-to-heart with him whenever we felt the need."

A blush made it itself known imperceptibly on Draco's pale cheeks, but he kept quiet.

"We all had a laugh at how Dumby and Potty were the ones in dire need of some Mind Healing –oh, maybe Weasley more than them! You should have seen the raving he did after McGonagall dragged you off by the ear; he nearly was frothing at the mouth before Granger, thankfully, convinced him to help haul Potty off to the Hospital wing. Ha! Draco, you should've seen Potter's face! You really served him some sweet desserts! Potter was clutching at his jaw in agony –dislocated from the looks of it," Draco grinned, the warmth of satisfaction at hearing this filling up his chest._ Bless Pansy – she always knew how to cheer him up. _"So, Draco, what did you talk to D J Prod about?"

"Pot—Parkinson!" Draco spluttered, _that wretched bint, Parkinson! That evil rabid thing—tricking him in such a way!_

"Oh, you poor baby, what did the big, bad Healer say was wrong with your ickle mind?"

Pansy chuckled mussing up his hair, he furiously slapped her hand away; Blaise guffawed from behind his book, which jiggled along with him; wheezing laughter broke out from the corner.

Almost completely pink by now with embarrassment and fury, Draco shot a glare into the corner: "Shut it, Nott!"

The laughter grew. Draco shot a hex at the source in the dark; immediately a bright purple light ray sailed over to him. Draco ducked hastily and Pansy just swayed out of the way still snickering. The laughter continued on.

"Tosser," Draco muttered turning resolutely away from the corner. That Nott was really a creepy nutter - even for a Slytherin.

Draco waited with gritted teeth until all sounds of amusement subsided; Pansy wiped a tear of mirth from the corner of her eye.

"So, how goes the state of your mind, Draco?" Pansy asked with a commendable smirk, stealing a bit of his chocolate.

"For your information, _Parkinson,_" he retorted with a scowl, "that man is not a Mind Healer! He's just some muggle version of it, where all you do is _talk_." He hoped he sounded derisive enough.

"And so you talked about Potter," she said lightly. It was not a question; it made Draco narrow his eyes at her.

"And…" she supplied resuming her molesting of Draco's hair. When he didn't deign to answer her, she huffed and rolled her eyes. "So, did you come to some earth-shattering conclusions about yourself? And Potter?" she added the last part in a low whisper that Draco thought he misheard it.

Draco frowned to himself and pondered for a few minutes, until Pansy grew impatient and began to positively tug on his hair so that his eyes watered. _That evil wench!_

Pulling away from Pansy's evil claws, he ran a hand himself through his hair and paused to give a dramatic sigh.

"I need someone to tail Potter," he announced gravely. It was met with silence for a moment.

He then heard Pansy exhale a long sigh. There was a sound of a book snapping shut and Blaise's face atlast made an appearance to the open; he stood up and stretched a little: "Right, I'm going to bed," he called. "I can now infer that the Mind Healer is an absolutely incompetent quack." His haughty features arranged themselves into an ugly sneer.

"He's not a Mind Healer!" Draco hissed in frustration, but Blaise barely paid attention as he disappeared into the Boys' dorms.

Pansy sighed again; her expression was that of a long suffering one: "And, why do you want Potter to be tailed?" she asked slowly.

"It's not important _why_, Pansy – just do it!" he said irritated: _why couldn't anyone else see the seriousness and urgency of the situation?_

Seeing Pansy bare her teeth in a scowl he backtracked a bit.

"I need you to follow him and watch his every move; for any sign or clue…I need to know what he's planning."

Pansy gave him a blank stare (he seemed to be getting those a lot these days).

"I need to know," he insisted in a serious tone, "what he's planning to do –to me—and I need to thwart him."

Pansy blinked several times and then she sighed that stupid sigh again.

"Oh, Draco," she said getting up from the armrest, "I'd love to skulk around Potter with you and make notes of how many sausages he consumes" –she smirked for some reason –"for breakfast or what colour boxers he wears for Monday's Potion Class"—Draco spluttered—"but you know how far behind I am in Transfiguration, what with missing two weeks worth of classes in the Hospital wing waiting to re-grow…never mind—damn that Ravenclaw bint for hexing me! So, anyway, if I don't catch up soon McGonagall will have my hide –you know how that partial, old bat is?"

She bent to pick up her parchment and books from the rug and stacked them in her arms.

"Sorry, Love, you're on your own this time. Good night, Draco!" she called and blew a kiss to him, and sauntered off to her dorm. Draco scowled at her back: _much use she was, _he thought angrily. In the ensuing quiet, Draco became aware of the low sniggers issuing from that blasted corner.

"Nott, just go bugger yourself or something—you bloody wanker!"

Draco ducked the rather nasty looking spell and hastily made his way to his dorm; he honestly didn't know when Nott slept in their shared dorm, he seemed to spend most of his time skulking in the common room eavesdropping on others' conversations.

As he undressed for bed he glanced at the two large lumps occupying the beds on either side of him : Crabbe and Goyle; they might be willing to follow Potter, but unfortunately the finesse required for stealth and furtiveness was not amongst their better traits(if they indeed have any, that is). Those two tailing someone would be like elephants stampeding to announce their presence.

Draco sighed as he got under his green duvet and stared at the canopy of his four-poster: looked like he would have to do all the work himself this time. Tailing Potter, he thought as he turned on his side and pulled the sheets over his head, should be easy, what with Potter being a thick dolt as he was. But why was that little voice inside his head (that sometimes told him stupid things like, '_this is wrong_', '_don't push them off the stairs_!', '_the world is a sunny place with fluffy hopping bunnies—be nice_!', '_Hippogriff—danger!_', '_don't do that—you'll get in trouble!_', '._.all the world needs is #%ve! All what you need is #*ve! #*ve! #*ve! #*VE!_', and '_unicorns are pretty –prettttyyy—pet them!_') was screaming something like 'nooooo…! Disaster! Danger! XXX! Nooo…!'

_Stupid little voice! _He grumbled into the pillow and slipped into sleep. The little voice continued to howl in misery, but to no avail.

OoOoO

**A/N: **short and silly chap, I know…hope for the best next time, ne?

:)

R & R!


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five **

As Draco plastered himself to the cold stone wall and carefully slithered along it like a weird version of a Flobberworm, a large part of him knew he looked beyond ridiculous; the other part was busy manoeuvring his feet into taking small even steps so that he didn't end up falling onto his face. It was right after dinner, and he was currently lurking in the corridor on the fourth floor, just off the library.

Draco's plan of shadowing Potter every step had not gone exactly to er, plan. He had apparently forgotten to taken into account of the fact that they had _classes _jam-packed into their schedules; and if Draco really wanted to catalogue Potter's every little (doubtlessly evil) move, he'd have to end up flunking that year – not that that'd be a big whoopie in view of the seriousness of the current situation, but Draco was pretty sure his Father would flay him to within an inch of his life if that were to happen or disown him or cancel his allowance and confiscate his broom (_gasp!_). And so, he found that the only time he'd be able to hound Potter's footsteps would be after the end the day's classes. He had, therefore, quickly wolfed down his dinner, waved Pansy's inquiries off, and slipped out of the Great Hall to slink after the Trio-That-Seemed-To-Be-Joined-At-The-Hip. He had followed them onto the fourth floor, and it seemed that they were heading to the library – more like, Granger was happily stomping up to her lair and was forcibly dragging Potty and Weasel along for the ride (Potty and Weasel did _not _look happy). _That Granger seriously was such a stick in the mud._

Draco slithered along a few more feet and came to a stop behind a suit of armour just as it appeared that Granger had tripped over her robes and went sprawling down with her books slipping out of her satchel and raining down on her. Draco grinned at the sight of the annoying-as-hell Know-It-All plastering her bossy face to the floor –only it didn't happen, and Draco frowned at the two arms around her steadying her just a few inches

from the cold, hard, unforgiving floor. Weasley and Potter lifted her upright, with their arms tangled up around her waist. Granger took a shuddering, steadying breath and pushed back her frizzy hair from her face and even spitted some out from her mouth (_eurgh!_) as the other two bent down to collect all the books (_honestly, how did that woman carry them around all day without her shoulder dislocating?_). She bent down as well to help shove all the tomes into her satchel, when Weasley muttered something which caused Granger to hit him upside the head with the _Spellman's Syllabary_while Potter snorted; Draco raised his brows at the display. And then, all three of them were laughing and chuckling while playfully nudging each other with elbows (Draco's eyebrows disappeared into his blond locks), and suddenly Granger was engulfing them in a hug while the other two blushed and looked awkward.

Draco stared wide-eyed at the idiot trio frolicking in the middle of the corridor in a strange Gryffindor-ish mating ritual/orgy of sorts. And all of a sudden, as though someone had bloody _Accio_ed it, the sodding buzzing returned to Draco's ears, nearly disconcerting him that he had to clasp on tighter to the armoured arm (_when had he clutched onto the suit of armour, in the first place?_). The buzzing grew and grew as he watched the Gryffindork-ese triplets unglue themselves from each other (_thank Circe! He REALLY was not in the mood for scarring his mind today, thanks)_ and resumed hunting for the stray books on the floor; by the time everything was shoved inside the book-bag and Potter handed it to Granger and placed it on her shoulder with a smile, Draco thought his head would burst from all the buzzing. It was making his eyes water and he felt like a wound up spring as all his muscles clenched tightly.

Suddenly, there was a loud metallic sound and he looked down at his hands to see his fingers clutching a dislocated metal arm.

"Hoy, look! It's that nutter- Malfoy!" Weasley called in his shrill voice.

The suit of armour chose that moment to creak down rustily over Draco, and snatched its appendage from his hands; Draco rather thought that its visor growled down sinisterly at him.

Draco looked up at all three Gryffindors staring at him and cursed to himself at having been sighted in his sneaking around. Hoping to appear nonchalant and not like someone who had been caught slinking along walls in the dark, he straitened his robes and put his trademark smirk firmly in place, and sauntered his way over to them –only to trip on a metallic foot so that he had to do a weird windmill impression with his arms in order to regain his balance.

The suit of armour clanked as it laughed a tinny, wheezing laugh and drew back its stuck out leg; Weasley burst out laughing in that boorish, stupid way of his, clutching at his sides. Scowling, Draco regained what little composure he could and made his way over to the trio –careful to avoid looking at Potter (Draco had not yet forgotten the Evil Power of Potter's accursed eyes) – and glared at the red-headed numbskull.

"What, Malfoy – skulking and spying around as usual? Is following people around one of your new deviant pervasions or just your job description as a sneaky l'il Slytherin? Where are your two goons been hiding at then?"

Draco always felt an insuppressible desire to stamp Weasley's freckled face into the ground –and then stamp some more on the mushy, bloody remnants until all that remained of Weasley would be a giant red stain on the floor. He idly wondered why that was. _Hmm_…

Draco gnashed his teeth and said through gritted teeth, "Weasley," he ground out, his lip curling in a sneer, "the day I decide to willingly follow and constantly be near you would be the day I cast a Be-heading curse on my self!"

"Here's hoping to that then, eh?" the Weasel smirked.

"Sod off, Weasel!" Draco spat.

"_You _sod off to your snake-pit, _Ferret!_" Weasley shouted; his ears now a shade of scarlet.

"Very mature—is that the best you can do?" Draco sneered.

"C'mon, Ron," Potter said tugging on Weasley's sleeve; Draco kept his glare fixed at Weasley, even though the buzzing was making his head spin. "Let's go."

"Yes, Ron," Granger huffed in agreement. "Let's not waste our time on _Malfoy_."

She sounded derisive and Draco's fury ascended up another notch on the scale, which compounded with the throbbing and _buzzing _in his head.

"Oh, don't be such a fun-killer, Granger! Weasel King and I were just indulging in some playful banter–don't be getting your spinsterly white knickers in a twist!"

Apparently, Granger's knickers was a sore point of Weasley's, who on hearing their mention had turned six shades of red and charged forward with his fist raised to defend their honour or something. Potter unsuccessfully tried to stop Weasley's Knuckle Express by holding onto Weasley's arm.

In a heartbeat before Weasel's fist could connect with the side of his face, Draco had raised his own fist for a counter-punch and threw it with all his force, but his fist inexplicably spun towards Potter like a frigging bloody magnet. Draco saw Potter widen his eyes in shock and before his own shocked brain could register the alarm of exposing to the Dark Power of Potter's (green, green, so very _green_) orbs, Potter swayed to his side to avoid being hit and bumped into Weasley, which made Weasley's punch go awry (thankfully) and just grazed Draco's ear, but the forward momentum caused Draco to lose balance. The result was a fall by all three boys into a tumble of entangled limbs and robes.

Draco winced as he felt someone's elbow jutting into his stomach; he spit out a mouthful of robes.

"Gerrof! Gerrof –you git!"

Draco opened his eyes and found himself to be lying atop the body pyramid: Weasley was at the bottom flailing one free arm futilely, his cursing coming out muffled through all the layers of cloth and bodies, and Potter was…Potter was currently sandwiched between _him_ and Weasel, and those almond shaped eyes that were blinking up slowly at him were _Potter's_; the buzzing attained previously unreached intensity, and Draco found that he couldn't work up a desperate scream even if he tried.

Draco tried to snap his eyes shut, but now that they were staring into those bewitched eyes, they refused to close their lids. He had managed to just work himself into a panic that was likely to give him an aneurysm, when someone yanked him up by the robes, consequently freeing him from his apparent body freeze. But his brain took its own sweet time to resume its functions and that left him standing and staring numbly in front of him for a few moments before he realised who had helped him up.

"Granger, I'd appreciate it if you desisted in touching my person in the future," he sneered , regaining some of his composure, as Granger helped the other two up and disentangled them. "I don't want your _muddy_ paws anywhere near me, thanks."

Weasley and Potter looked furious; Weasley looked ready to rectify his earlier failure of pounding Draco into pulp and almost sprung on him; but Granger got there first: for the second time in his life, Draco felt Granger's palm imprint across his cheek with a resounding _smack!_

With his eyes watering and the skin on his face hot and painfully tingling, Draco watched as Granger folded her arms across her chest and narrowed her eyes at him:

"Grow up, Malfoy!" she said gravely, and then threw a prize-worthy sneer at him, turned on her heel, pulled and tugged Weasley and Potter away to the library.

Draco stood there in the middle of the corridor with the sound of the slap echoing endlessly in his ears, and wondered what growing up had to do with anything.

Back in the Common Room, he had to endure a full minute of Pansy laughing uproariously (and Nott's constant sniggers – but Draco decided to block out the twit) over the hand print over his face (Blaise had just ignored him and gone back to reading his infernal book; Crabbe and Goyle were knocked out from eating too many contraband Fire Whisky laced chocolate éclairs in a corner). Draco sat in his armchair and thought that maybe following Potter wasn't such a great idea after all (the little voice in his head piped up triumphantly, 'I told you so!') and considering tonight's events, it'd be dangerous to be in Potter's proximity making himself vulnerable to Potter's Dark Powers; to the pull of his diabolical eyes; to the infernal _buzzing_…

_That's it!_ He needed to get _away_ from Potter: be as far away as he get could from Potter's evil designs on him (whatever they might be, he was sure he didn't want to know). Maybe there was a way to save himself after all…

So, scratch out plan: Potter Sucks, I Rule (No. 141) – Shadow Potter Around Like A Sneaky Crup.

Draco reclined in the leather armchair and looked up at the centuries old chandelier which had hundreds of carved snakes twined around each other, their curled tails holding up candles (because it was a Slytherin artefact, it was imperative that it have snakes in one form or another—in case you were wondering), vaguely aware of Pansy badgering Blaise in her whiny, desperate tone about letting her copy his essay for Transfiguration that was due the next day, Draco sighed to himself and thought of the new plan, which was something like: Potter Sucks, I Rule (No. 142) – Stay The _Bloody Hell_ Away From Potter Or Any Potter Shaped Objects.

It was a good plan: Draco _hated _the git, ergo it'd be easy to avoid him at all costs; it'd even be a relief, really—not seeing that ugly mug. And in classes he could just take a seat at the opposite end of the room from the four-eyed prat.

Steering clear of Harry Potter? –_easy peasy, lemon squeezy! _(Freckles made him queasy and Malfoys were _not_ sleazy –in case you wanted to know.)

OoOoO

"You know? I've always called him an inbred nutter – but now, I'm seriously starting to believe it," Ron said slowly, watching a pale figure whiz past between the House tables.

Harry, whose eyes were also on the same object agreed whole-heartedly with this assessment: he watched the figure positively race out of the Great Hall, robes flapping behind noisily; many of the students had also paused in the process of wolfing down dinner and were craning their necks and twisting in their seats to catch a glimpse of the pale, but slightly pink-flushed, blur.

"I do believe," Harry said turning back to his steak-and-kidney pie after the blur had vanished beyond the Hall doors, "that Malfoy has finally lost his marbles."

"Harry!" Hermione exclaimed and for some reason dissolved into giggles; Harry raised an eyebrow in confusion, which was also shared by Ron:

"Wha? Wassofunny?" he asked from around a large bite of potatoes.

"Nothing—nothing!" Hermione waved him off and ducked her blushing face behind the Transfiguration text book she had brought to dinner to read inbetween bites of her meal (because it was Hermione, and she considered chewing time a valuable time lost if not used to cram—pun unintended—it was just the way she was).

"Anyway," Ron said swallowing the mashed potatoes and rolling his eyes at Hermione as though to say, '_Girls! Blast-Ended-Skrewts are easier to understand than the mysterious female species', _"as Harry summed it up: Malfoy has gone mental! Did you notice how every time he spots us he scurries away like there's a fire under his bu-"

"Ron!" Hermione said biting into a mouthful of her chicken casserole and turning a page in the text.

What? Malfoy was running away due to them? Harry hadn't noticed that at all: he had been far more engrossed in being highly amused at the way Malfoy always seemed to ridiculously scamper off at high speeds from a room – he rather looked like a scared, little albino ferret escaping from a fox or something. If Ron-The-Master-At-Being-Oblivious had noticed it, then it must be true.

"It _is _true that Malfoy does seem to flee at the sight of us," Hermione was saying while perusing a spell in the book, "or to be more specific: at the sight of _Harry._"

_What? _Harry thought surprised (and why hadn't _he_ observed any of this? Surely, he wasn't worse than Ron, now, was he….?).

"Hmm…yeah, that's right!" Ron said, absently looking at Harry. "Yesterday while coming to breakfast he bounded off in the opposite direction once he saw us near the Hall doors; and in the library as soon as he laid eyes on Harry he up and went off like a fire-cracker was between his legs! –he left most of his work behind and I saw Goyle come collect it later."

Ron started laughing.

"And," Hermione continued, turning another page, "in Potions' class today, Malfoy sat in the last bench (a first for him) and had Crabbe and Goyle sit in front of him like a wall, and hid behind them for the entirety of the class: Snape made Harry sit at the front near his desk for _'trying to sabotage Longbottom's already piss-poor work by distracting his notoriously feeble attention span by inane chin-wagging' _as he put it."

"Stupid, greasy git," Harry muttered angrily. Ron patted him sympathetically on his back.

"Wait!" said Harry suddenly remembering, "the other day I bumped into Malfoy outside the loo in between classes, and he jumped up a mile when he saw me and then fled away – I'm pretty sure he squeaked a little too!"

Ron laughed harder, thumping his fist on the table sending bits of food everywhere; Hermione scowled at him and lifted her book up to save it from being splattered with bits of meat; Harry watched tears of mirth streaming down Ron's face and joined in the laughter.

"But, seriously, mate," Ron said finally recovering a bit to resume piling food onto his plate, "whatever you're doing that's making Malfoy to act this way –please do continue!"

"Definitely!" Harry said chuckling. "Though, I wish I knew _what_ exactly I am doing."

Hermione _hmph_ed and went back to reading her text.

"But, I have to admit that I had an inkling of Malfoy's insanity," Harry said thoughtfully, chewing on a bit of pie. "Remember that Transfiguration class—where he punched me _without _any reason?"

"Yeah, I wish McGonagall hadn't stopped me from throttling the life out of that wanker!" Ron said darkly.

"Yes, well –it was so weird! He just came flying at me from nowhere in the middle of lesson!" Harry said staring at his plate and frowning, "the look on his face…it freaked the hell out of me! For one second there I thought he was going to… –er, strangle me or something." He mumbled out the last part flushing for unknown reasons, and proceeded to stuff his mouth with more pie (he did much love the steak-and-kidney pie).

From the corner of his eye Harry noticed Hermione looking up interestedly from her book and peering at him in that decidedly Hermione-ish way. Ron –bless him, ever the oblivious simpleton—shoved a bit more food into his mouth and chewed noisily.

" 'Ell, 'usht gowshtu show, dunnit?" he said thoughtfully munching, and then swallowed. "Malfoy's mental! Did you see him groping at the wall in that corridor outside the library, that day? Well, I just hope Malfoy's insanity continues into next week's match – you just have to show up on the pitch and Malfoy'll just disappear from the pitch like someone performed an _Evanesco_ on the poncy git! Easiest win ever! I'd love to see the expression on Snape's greasy face!"

Ron howled with laughter at the images forming in his mind.

"It _is_ funny when he scurries off like a giant ferret, innit?" Harry chuckled.

"Right!" Ron agreed laughing harder." I've honestly never seen anyone run faster –and so terrified!"

"Hehe! Maybe like Snape being confronted with the prospect of washing his hair with shampoo!"

"Hah! Good one!"

"Or Ron faced with a baby spider!"

"Oye! OK – like Harry faced with a weepy girl!"

"_Boys,_" Hermione intoned exasperatedly from behind her book.

"Or Hermione faced with a nine-on-ten on a homework!"

"No-No! A nine_ and a half-_on-ten!"

Hermione huffed from behind the text.

OoOoO

Meanwhile, in the North tower, Prod sat behind his desk and resisted the urge to repeatedly bang his head onto the wood. No other student had come soliciting his help (i.e., sent forcibly for detention) since the Malfoy brat had visited and had managed to give Prod an exploding headache that had lasted for three solid days.

Prod felt that headache returning as he gazed at the young witch in front of him: the girl sat on the couch and swung her legs to and fro, humming to a tune of an unknown song. She said she had come voluntarily to see him because she wanted to ask him if he had ever seen a –what was it?- ah, yes – an _Aquavirius_ _Maggot_? Conversation, sadly, had then continued to leave the realm of sanity.

The girl had long, messy blond hair and odd, protuberant pale and rather glassy eyes; she had stashed her wand behind a ear (which made Prod hastily retrieve his own from behind his ear and shove the wand into a robe pocket); she had also adorned herself with radish earrings and a Butterbeer-cork necklace.

Prod had commented on the last in order to distract her from her detailed and mildly disturbing description of the brain-like tentacles of the Aqua-thingy. The girl had said in her dreamy voice and her eyes (disturbingly) unblinking that the necklace warded off something called _Nargles_! Prod had gaped and decided to drop the subject.

The topic had then veered to something called _Umgubular Slashkilter_:

"Umbridge—what?" he had asked hoarsely.

The girl nodded eagerly, "Yes, Fudge has one." – which made absolutely no bloody sense to him at all, not that he had been able to follow a whit of the girl's chatter from the start.

And so, he sat behind his desk, wondering if he banged his head hard enough what would cease to exist first? –his life or the headache…and it seemed that he had no patience to figure out the answer—it was time for a practical test.

And just as he was about to commence his first head bang, the door er, banged open.

"Ah, you're here Prod –I've just been to your rooms to look for you!"

It was that batty bat of a woman –Trelawney; she had been coming regularly upto him to either pester him to join for a drink, a meal or something: she said that him being her nearest neighbour, both of them should participate in a spot of socializing (i.e., bring out the bottles and drink until merry-ho!), she even offered her services to read tea-leaves or something. Prod had respectfully declined (i.e., threatened to attack her with her own teacups if she didn't leave him the bloody alone) but the glitter-bug of a woman had persisted and persisted, and persisted…(Prod was in the midst of a plan of offering her a nice poison-laced Sherry bottle).

"_Sybill!_" he ground out with as much acid as he could infuse in the name. "I _told _you I had no bottles of liquor in my possession!"

"I already know that—I just looked into all your drawers! I also checked under the bed to be sure, of course!"

"You WHAT?" Prod screeched like he had never before screeched in his life.

"Hoh! You've got a visitor, eh?" Trelawney focussed her red rimmed eyes onto the figure on the couch while waving dismissively at Prod.

"Hello, Professor."

Trelawney blinked behind her thick glasses perched lopsided on her nose until the girl came into focus. And then, suddenly she almost seemed to draw back in alarm.

"Ah, Lovegood, it's you," she sounded wary and drew her sequined shawls closer around her. "What are you doing here, my child?"

"I felt a colony of Wrackspurts nesting around here," the girl said mildly. "Surely, Professor, you've felt one of them buzzing around you too?"

Trelawney paled and took a step back.

"Ah, no, my dear," she answered shakily. "Maybe I'll see them next time! Well, I've got to be going—I have a, er, important reading tea-leaves thing…" she said vaguely gesturing backwards and then positively fled from the room—her many trinkets jingling and clinking.

"Wrackspurts are invincible," the Lovegood girl informed to the hastily retreating back of her Professor.

Prod gulped as he silently turned from Trelawney's disappearing back to fearfully glance at the girl, who was now smiling vacantly at him.

OoOoO

**A/N: **It took me _ages_ to write this in one sitting—I'm one of those who pick-and-peck at the keyboard with two fingers, unlike cool people who type like they're playing the piano. _Woe me!_

Ergo, reviews are like, like –the awesome-est things in the world, which I can't really recall at the mo.

And, _MightyGryffindor_ - thnx for the concrit on maybes! I'll go n fix them now..may be! ;)

And remember—

if u r happy nd u kno it, click the (review) button! _Click! Click!_

If u r happy nd u kno it, type out a review!_ Tap! Tap!_

If u r happy nd u kno it u really ought to -

-_UGH!_ Someone kill me rite now! (v v v sry! I slp deprivd! no scorn 4 abov mntl shit plz)


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